


I Worship

by Dark_and_night



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, One Shot, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:08:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21752014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_and_night/pseuds/Dark_and_night
Summary: Brahms prays every night before bed, but it only seems to upset him.
Relationships: Brahms Heelshire/Reader, Brahms Heelshire/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 112





	I Worship

Brahms, as he settled into the routine of a man, shed some of his old habits. ‘Rejecting his parents ideals’ he called it one night. You tried to get him to elaborate, but he had changed the subject, leaving you to make tea. You had decided to drop it for Brahms sake. You kind of had an idea of what he meant.  


His parents, no matter how much time had passed, were a touchy subject. The last wound that never seemed to heal correctly. Brahms’ past was always kept vague, but the more you thought about how he had come to be the man in the wall, the more horrifying the reality of his childhood became.  


Even if Brahms had killed that little girl when he was eight (which, you still weren’t sold on the idea that he had), his parents came from money. And he was eight. The worst that could have happened to him would be that he’d be sent to some sort of institute for children. On top of that, he had been badly burned in the fire the same day he supposedly killed the girl. He had needed serious medical attention, regardless of what he had done. And his rich parents had thrown him in a wall and made him play dead.  


How painful could the recovery have been without drugs? How agonizing was it for him to lay there in the dusty old house, trying not to move as his burns scabbed? No matter what he might or might not have done, no child should have had to go through that.  


The more you thought about it, the less sense it all made. Which was why you never tried to think about it. Brahms didn’t want to talk about it, and frankly, you didn’t either.  


However, the one thing he never stopped doing that his parents had taught him, was to pray every night before bed. He would go over the same prayer they had recited to him, asking God to bless you multiple times a prayer. You’d smile and watch him, listening to his voice, finally observing him for once, instead of the other way around. On the rare nights he did it without his mask, his brow wrinkled in concentration as he prayed.  


After every prayer, he would take your hand and squeeze it, and then the two of you would sleep.  


At first you didn’t think anything of it, seeing as you had done with for him when he was still only a doll to you. However, some days he seemed to be pleading, gripping his hands together so hard you could see the veins pop on the back of his hands. It became more frequent, the words coming out of his mouth more feverishly, as if he was begging.  


One night you gently took his hands, for the first time interrupting him. He looked at you with wide eyes, his hands still tense in yours.  


“What?” He snapped.  


You blinked, pulling away from him, not used to him being angry with you. “I’m sorry.” You whispered, turning away from him and lying on your side.  


Brahms’ eyes widened as he realized what he had done, reaching out a hand and putting it on your shoulder.  


You just curled up more, not wanting to forgive him as easily as you always did. And, you had to admit to yourself, you had interrupted him. Still, it was because he looked up upset, you thought as you ignored his olive branch childishly.  


“I’m sorry.” He said quietly, gently pulling on your arm to turn you to face him. “I’m sorry.”  


Sighing, your ran your hand through his hair, your resolve already breaking down. No point in being upset over something so small.  


“You looked upset, so I wanted to ask what was wrong.” You mumbled as Brahms rested his head on your chest. Your hands automatically found their way into his hair, the two of you in sync, one knowing what the other wanted.  


“I don’t know.” He shrugged slightly against you.  


“Why do you pray? Does it make you feel better?” You asked.  


Brahms thought about it for a moment. “It used to.” He finally said. “It stopped making me feel better a while ago. But I’m scared to stop. Like I’ll be punished for it.”  


“No one is here to make you.” You kissed the top of his head. “Why don’t you try changing how you do it, if you’re scared to stop?”  


Brahms looked up at you. “What do you mean?”  


You thought about it for a moment. You weren’t exactly an expert in religion or spirituality, but you did know that if something was upsetting someone, they should try to change things. “Well, instead of asking for things, why don’t you word it like a diary? Or, um, maybe try praying to something else? Like, if there’s someone you want to talk to who has passed, you could pray like you’re talking to them.”  


Brahms breathed out his nose. “There’s no one who is dead I care about.” His voice was sharp, and you knew he was thinking of his parents.  


“I’m sorry.” You said genuinely, wishing you knew how to help him. “Those were just some ideas, but if you want to keep doing what you’ve been doing, then just keep doing it. Um, maybe I can check out some books on religion at the library, or-!”  


As you started to ramble, Brahms lifted his mask, kissing you firmly on the lips, stopping your wave of apologies. You closed your eyes, knowing that was his way of telling you that you had nothing to apologize for. You gently scratched behind his ears, smiling when he deepened the kiss at your action.  


All too soon, the kiss was broken, and Brahms looked at you with soft eyes.  


“I think I know what I’m going to do from now on.” He whispered.  


The next night, after the both of you were ready for bed, you laid in your side of the bed, watching Brahms to see what exactly his new method would be, and if it would leave him feeling relieved instead of upset.  


Brahms got out of bed, walking over to your side and kneeling beside you. Silently he reached out and took your hands bringing them into prayer position. You blinked in surprise, never once joining in his prayers once he came out of the wall. Instead of pulling back, Brahms gently wrapped his hands around yours, his palms warm on your hands.  


He continued to hold onto your hands as he started saying softly. “Let me stay with you. Let me be what you need. Let me take care of you. Let me learn. Let you love me. Let you be happy. Help take care of me, and I will help take care of you.” He brought his lips to the back of your hands, spreading his fingers so his lips could meet your skin. “Forever.”  


Brahms let go of your hands, standing slowly. He let out a breath, closing his eyes and tilting his head back slightly. His shoulders were relaxed. Whatever he had done, it had helped him.  


“What was that?” You asked softly, feeling as if you had intruded on something intimate.  


Brahms opened his eyes, looking down at you. “I was praying to you.”  


Your eyes widened, and you sat up. “No, you shouldn’t-. I’m not-!”  


Brahms sat on the bed next to you, brushing the back of his fingers against your cheek. “Shouldn’t?”  


“It’s not healthy for you to put me on a level like that!” You explained, feeling your face heating up. “I’m no god, you shouldn’t-.”  


“All my life, I was told to pray to a god who I had never seen, and never touched. I knew nothing of that god, and he was the god my parents prayed to, and yet still, they allowed me to suffer.” Brahms explained, cupping the back of your neck with his hand. “I was told that bad things happened to bad people, and only bad things happened to me most of my life. So, I must be bad.”  


“Brahms.” You breathed.  


“But you, I can see you. I can touch you. And you have always, always, followed through on the things you have promised me. There is a moment in every life where we decide what to worship. A God, a religion, a set of ideals, or ourselves. But I myself, I chose to follow you.” Brahms gently pulled you forward by your neck, resting his head on your shoulder. “If I am going to pray to anything, it will be something I have been able to believe in the whole time we have known each other.”  


“I’m not a god, Brahms.” You whispered.  


“I know.” He chuckled. “Then don’t call them prayers. Call them…wishes, or promises.”  


You gently pulled him into a hug. “I suppose that’s okay…”  


Brahms smiled, rolling over into his side of the bed. “Good. Thank you.”  


He pulled you into his arms, watching you as you slowly fell asleep, watching your breathing become even and the worry falling from your face. He could worship you, because you were the only thing that had ever blessed him.


End file.
